


Water Damage

by Willowanderer



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Emotional Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kink Meme, M/M, bathhouse, casual nudity, preslash, sudden mood shift in the second chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowanderer/pseuds/Willowanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Assassin's Creed Kink Meme <br/>(a little late, since the prompt was back in part 3, but it hadn't been Filled) </p>
<p>Prompt: Bath Houses</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“There's nothing to be done for it; you aren't going to get clean without hot water, and I am not heating it for you; nor am I equipt to let you do it yourself.” The unspoken 'if you were so inclined' hung heavy in the air. “You're lucky- in Acre, they're closing the bath houses for some odd reason.”

“... do you think I'd be clean by the time I got there?”

“Dirt does not make you cleaner, Altaïr.”

“...sweat does.”

“Do you want to be the first assassin ever to be caught by scent alone?” Malik could see the thought cross Altaïr's face, stained as it was with pitch, ink, dye, and dried egg yolk. Malik would have considered giving up his other arm to have seen how the unmitigated disaster had occurred. He wouldn't have done it, but he would have given it at very least as much consideration as Altaïr was giving simply letting the mess wear off naturally. Altaïr picked up the rag and started scrubbing at his arms again. Malik came to his feet slowly, leaving Altaïr to his own devices, as he filled a basket with clean clothes, drying cloths, soap and oil- things he would need at the bathhouse. It was plain that not only would he have to make sure Altaïr went- he would have to stay with him to make sure he washed- it wasn't a large sacrifice- he rarely got a chance to visit the bathouse as often as he'd like anyway. Setting the basket down he tossed a lose robe at Altaïr's head- it would have to be washed, but it was in better shape than Altaïr's robes which might even be a lost cause.

“cover yourself.” The assassin flailed for a moment, but put his arms through the armholes, glaring at Malik, with unshaded eyes.

“No.”

“We are not starting this again, notice.” He hitched the basket onto his shoulder by it's strap, and grasped the back of the tunic Altaïr was now dressed in, giving it a half hitch, and dragging the fearsome assassin out of the building like a recalcitrant donkey.

“Honestly, what is wrong with you?” He demanded. “You used to be so finicky about being clean.”

“a man can change.” Altaïr protested, but finally gave in, walking instead of being dragged.

“Of all the changes you could make, not liking baths...” Malik shook his head. He was not going to even try to fathom what went on in Altaïr's mind.

 

<) * (>

 

Two men walking to the bath house, even hand in hand, was a different sort of anonymity than the forced stealth of blending. Altaïr felt uncomfortable out of his normal robes, and exposed with his head uncovered. But really what he looked like was anyone else on the street. He gave an experimental tug at Malik's hand and winced a bit as his grip tightened.

“I can and will hold you down and scrub if it comes to that.” Malik warned. “If you act even more like a petulant child, I will treat you like one.”

the corner of Altaïr's mouth curled up in a half snarl, half sneer- which would have been more effective had it not been smeared with a dark, sticky mess.

 

 <) * (>

 

The attendant at the bathhouse looked horrified- but not surprised.

“Ah- your friend was there for the disaster?” he asked Malik- who he had seen before.

“He found himself in the middle of it.”

“We've seen a few people trying to clean up- but you're in luck, as we just changed the water in the large tubs today.”

“Ah, excellent- I thought that was today.” Altaïr gave another serendipitous tug to try to escape. The air smelled like water here, thick and damp, and mixed faintly with sweat and oil.

“Will you need help?” it was a standard offer- and one Malik had occasionally taken the attendants up on, for all his back itched when someone else touched it. Not today, however, and he shook his head. “Massage?”

“No.” Altaïr spoke too quickly.

“Well, I will remind you no soap in the main pools; and you may want to use the steam room.” He waited to take their clothes to wash, a service of the bathhouse, then left them to their own devices.

“If they just changed the water, it won't be truly hot for a while yet.” Malik commented idly, keeping himself between Altaïr and the door so the other assassin couldn't bolt. From the sidelong look, Altaïr knew he was doing it. Though clean patches were visible where the mess had stuck to clothing instead of skin, Malik had to admit it would be harder to get a grip on Altaïr in his current state of undress. That didn't stop him from doing so, marching him through the steamroom into the bathing room and shoving him down onto a bench beside a basin, picking up a bucket and dousing him with hot water. Altaïr's face screwed up, and his hair flattened down to his head.

“I can and will bathe myself, brother.”

“Prove it.” Refilling the bucket was difficult one handed and he shoved it into Altaïr's hands. There was from the other side of the room a faint laugh from another patron, which silenced at a honey-gold glare. A second glare was not nearly so effective on Malik.

“I have gotten pitch on me before-” Malik admitted “Though never quite this much-” he reached out and plucked a feather from Altaïr's hair and twirled the downy tuft between his fingers before tossing it aside, and offering a earthen bottle. “Start with oil, then soap.”

The oil softened his skin and helped the mess to come loose- much more easily than his scrubbing at the bureau. And he had to admit the more grime and mess that came off, the better he felt, though he kept searching around the room, carefully sizing up the other bathers, who for the most part, ignored them. It should have been reassuring, but it did nothing to ease his nervousness.

 

The soap smelled faintly of sandalwood, a luxury that Altaïr knew came from Malik's private stores, and he used it sparingly until Malik slapped rag sharply across his back.

“It will do no good in the pot, novice. My threat stands.”

“So you wish me perfumed?”

“It would be an improvement.” Another smack of the washrag and then a rub across the back of his neck. He could feel something loosening there, a patch of filth.

“This seems backwards. I should be helping you- ow!” Malik's fingers twisted the hair at the nape of his neck.

“ _I_ am perfectly capable of washing myself.”

Altaïr rubbed the back of his neck washing the sting, though from the way Malik flicked his fingers, it was more removing another clump from his hair- something that had gotten matted under his hood- he'd run about for over an hour with the mess drying and caking on him- and collecting detritus before he managed to make it back to the bureau.

“You're skipping bits. I would have thought that you'd have learned by now that if you do a sloppy job, I'll make you go back and do it again.”

“One would think you wanted to wash me.”

“One would think you wanted me to wash you.” He turned to grab another bucket full of water, and Altaïr struck, giving Malik's back a good scrub with cloth and nails. Hot water went everywhere and the other bathers gave the pair and even larger berth- the entire room.

 

<) * (>

 

“Malik.”

“Mnn.”

“Malik.” something prodded his leg, and he opened his eyes to see Altaïr sprawled on the tiled bench half cloaked in the thick steam of the room, skin flushed, and beaded with sweat. He still had a stain of some sort of ink or dye on his cheekbone. He was prodding the dai with one foot.

“I told you sweat got you clean.”

“Shut up.” Malik closed his eyes again, leaning against the wall. He didn't close them all the way, observing that Altaïr was much more relaxed here, away from the water. Really, this aversion of his was getting ridiculous. Someone else entered, and all of the relaxation fled from the assassin's body as they settled in to steam themselves clean. Idly he scratched a hand along his chest, loosening dead skin and sweat, then wiggled against the tiles before sitting up and stretching about to scratch his back as well. Reaching out, Malik lent a hand and saw Altaïr relax again at the touch, though not to the melted puddle he'd been before. Inspecting the flushed sweaty skin of the back Altaïr so trustingly exposed to him, Malik gave it a slap, and stood. “I think you will be cooked before much more comes off. Back into the bathing room, to see if we cannot improve your unsightly face with at very least the lack of a stain.”

 

<) * (>

 

Lacking a mirror, Malik spent the better part of a half an hour scrubbing it off Altaïr's face for him, since he kept missing. That done he had to forcefully drag Altaïr into the soaking chamber, and flip him over his hip into the deep inset basin. Altaïr clung to the edge of the tub, looking up at Malik with murderous intent- despite the fact the tub itself was no more than two feet deep.

“I am going to shrink like wool.” the assassin complained, his teeth gritted. “All this water and heat. Then I shall be too small to do assassinations and you'll have to.”

“... and how do you purpose you'd make yourself useful in that case.”

“Clearly, I will just be grouchy and make you do twice as much research as is necessary. Or be a good example, and actually gather useful information for busy people.”

“Ha.” Malik settled into the tub beside him and let the water envelop him. While he did visit the bathhouse regularly, the amount of time he was indulging in today- purely in the name of making sure Altaïr got clean- was a pleasure. If only he could indulge in a massage as well- he'd heard the masseuses here were skilled. But no, if he hadn't managed it yet, he wasn't going to manage today.

 

They were silent for a long time, and Malik noticed that Altaïr did not release his grip on the side of the tub, clinging to it like a child with a doll. His shoulders, which were now pink and clean, trembled. Malik put his hand on Altaïr's back- prepared to be lashed out at. Instead Altaïr gave one more hard shiver, and looked back over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around golden irises, pupils nothing more than pinpricks.

“Go ahead.” he muttered.

“Oh, I hardly require permission to mock you for your fear of water, novice.”

Altaïr bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the edge of the tub. They were alone in the soaking room for now, though Malik could hear that there were people elsewhere.

“Of all people, you have the right.” He mumbled into his arms.

“Talk sense.”

Altaïr shook his head, and Malik moved his hand to touch his face and cheeks instead, trying to judge if perhaps he'd gotten overheated. If anything, he felt a bit chilled. Which, given the temperature of the water, was a bit odd.

“I think you're as clean as you're getting...”

“No.”

“What?”

“Why should I wash when I will never be clean?” He muttered, clutching at the edge of the tub.

“What sort of nonsense are you talking?” He tried to pry Altaïr's fingers from the tiles. For a half second, with Malik's front pressed against his back, Altaïr went limp, then he scrambled up like an escaping cat- an errant foot caught him in the stomach and sent him sprawling backward into the tub. Surfacing he thrust hair out of his eyes, and glared- Altaïr having found his drying cloth was staring Malik with an expression somewhere between apologetic, horrified, and amused. It was a complicated expression.

“The depths of your idiocy...” Malik growled as he climbed out. Wisely, Altaïr did not attempt to apologize- or help.

 

<) * (>

 

He was surprised by a small jar sealed with a cork and wax being shoved into his hand.

“All that, and amazingly you were better behaved than I feared.” Malik raised an eyebrow. He uncorked it and was rewarded with a sweet smell. Almond oil. “... as I recall it was your favorite.” the dai made a production of indifference, But Altaïr was well aware that he did not forget things, however small and inconsequential. It was part of what made him terrifying and effective.

And he was right- when they had been younger, almond oil had been his favorite for conditioning skin after bathing, even over more exoticly scented oils. The scent tickled his nose, triggering memories of all sorts, the feel of oil on his skin, the sound of laughter and water- or were those real?

“It was, thank you.” He said and poured a bit into his palm, moving it around with a finger tip, before starting to apply it. Even the fine soap Malik used was harsh, and his warm skin soaked up the oil greedily.

 

It did feel good to be clean, and not just in comparison to how coated in grime he'd been that afternoon, but more thoroughly cleaned than he'd been in weeks- and feeling more clean than he had in more than half a year. He jumped when a hand touched him- but it was a familiar one.

“... make yourself useful.” Malik showed him trust by turning his back to Altaïr. They'd spent more than enough time, and it would be faster to get Altaïr to get the places on his back that were hard to reach. There was a pause. Malik had just decided that Alair somehow thought that it would be demeaning to do so, despite his earlier, near playful _unwanted_ 'assistance' when a hand splayed on his back- firmly, so there was no question of the touch.

“I hope you react to the unexpected faster than that in the field, novice.” he grumbled.

“Like you've never stopped to admire a view.”

“and that's enough of that.” Malik stood up suddenly enough that the oiled hand slid down his back and over his backside, a sudden sensation that had him stepping quickly forward a few steps rubbing in the last of the oil on his hand, and claiming a cloth to wrap around himself to go and claim their clothes from the attendant.

 

For all it was a gentle accidental touch he could swear he felt the impression of a splayed hand with a missing finger.

 

When he returned, he wondered how Altaïr had managed to flee the bathhouse without clothing- and the image of him dashing across rooftops in that state would, Malik was sure, be burned into his mind for weeks to come- but he spotted him sitting on a bench, with a drying cloth draped over his head like a makeshift hood. The dai shook his head he had no idea what went on in Altaïr's mind these days.

“Here.” He tossed the robe at Altaïr- and was glad to see him snatch it from the air before it hit him. If he had managed to surprise the assassin again, he would have felt it necessary to make sure he wasn't suffering from a headwound. Malik was half sure that Altaïr was anyway. He followed Malik out meekly enough, even carrying the basket- which he wouldn't have even asked.

 

<) * (>

 

“Thank you.” Altaïr said, so quietly, Malik thought he might have missed it.

“Just keep yourself from getting so dirty again; novice.” Malik grumbled, stowing the bathing things as Altaïr inspected his assassin's robe with undisguised dismay.

“Leave it; You're hardly so special you can't use a spare uniform.” Altaïr's vaguely insulted face showed that he certainly felt that he was, but he nodded, slowly.   
“You should carry a spare.”

“that was the spare.” he grumbled.

“... rampaging hordes of Monguls do less damage to the world around them than you, novice.”

Altaïr flapped a hand dismissively, and disappeared into the storage room, reemerging to rearm himself- his weapons had been meticulously cleaned before Malik had even seen him starting to try to clean himself.

He had one foot on the lip of the fountain, preparing to exit, and finish gathering the information he needed, when he heard Malik's voice and turned back to see the dai leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Remember what I said. Don't let yourself get so filthy again. I am not making a practice of bathing you.”

“A pity.” Altaïr made a releasing gesture and launched himself upward, disappearing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Altaïr returns to bother Malik with his presence- and his lack of bathing.  
> Then he finds a new way to cause Malik trouble.

Once the last of the mess had been cleaned away, Altaïr's robes boiled and bleached into a semblance of respectability in time for him to take them away with him after his kill. Malik expected it to fade to unimportance in his mind, beyond the entertaining, betrayed and horrified expression on Altaïr's face the instant before he hit the water.

Malik felt the corner of his mouth lift at that memory. That had been entertaining. Sadly, he could not remember that without also remembering the touch on his skin, and the half-or perhaps even more than half flirtatious comments Altaïr had made. He had ignored them at the time as Altaïr's distraction techniques to avoid an uncomfortable situation, but they had preyed on his mind in the empty times since. Malik was sure that there were some odd thoughts rattling around Altaïr's skull, but he had no idea what was going on in it.  
If he was very lucky, he could go for days without thinking of him at all. The minutia of running a bureau helped, sending off close coded reports with the constantly running stream of novices who brought messages too long for pigeons, and crates of new birds.  
So Altaïr's return did not take him entirely by surprise.

“Safety and peace, Malik.”  
“Did you stay even at day at Maysaf? Are you trying to kill horses?” Malik turned and raised his eyebrows at Altaïr, dusty and faintly stained from travel.  
“My work is not there.”  
“You don't look fit to kill a bird for the pot at the moment.”  
“It is fortunate then, that first I must find it. Unless you're going to tell me where the fat cluck is.”  
“And when did you wash last?”  
Altaïr rubbed scruffy stubble at his chin, and gave a halfhearted smirk.  
“You were right; they closed many of the bathhouses in Acre- can you believe it seemed to be the Templars' idea?”  
Malik shook his head, wondering what possible benefit that could be for them; though it certainly fit his idea of how stupid and disgusting Templars could be.  
“Well there are bathhouses here, you should go to one of them.” He was turning away, and something tugged at his sleeve. Altaïr had caught the edge of it between the knuckles of two fingers.  
“Come with me.” it was surprisingly direct.  
“No.”  
The fingers released his sleeve.  
“Very well.”  
Malik stopped paying attention to Altaïr after that, he presumed he had gone gathering information on his target, or with luck, bathing.

When Altaïr returned, in the flickering lamplight, he was cleaner, and somewhat fresher smelling, at least. And he rubbed water over himself to further clean the dust of the city off before sleeping, sprawled, half armed and less than half dressed, on the cushions. Malik stared at the sleeping assassin, limp as a cat in the sun, before shaking his head and turning away. So he had spent the day finding information instead of visiting the bathhouse- if he was honest, Malik could not say Altaïr was not focused. A pity he still smelled faintly of horses, even after his cold water scrub in the courtyard.

There was a pastry on his desk. A pretty pastry shaped like a bird, slivers of almonds arranged like feathers and held in place with a glossy coating of honey, and a nearly knowing raisin eye, staring at him. Daring him to eat it.  
He hadn't bought it. Someone else must have.  
The list was very short.  
The problem was the list of reasons why it was there was possibly longer.  
In the end, he ate it anyway. It was entirely too decadent, and too delicious to let go to waste. It was stuffed with apricots, and he hoped very much that it had been paid for because would be worth every penny. But he never would have bought it.

The next day, there was a neat stack of four oranges in the same place. He didn't have any qualms about eating those.

The day after that, a bundle of quills, neatly trimmed. If he hadn't already known Altaïr was the mysterious gifter, it would have given away, since he had always used an odd angle to sharpen quills, serviceable, but giving his writing a sharp, scratchy quality, rather than fluid calligraphy. They were perfectly good for drawing fine details on maps, however, and if there was one thing he always needed, it was more sharp quills.

An informant passed on the interesting tidbit that Altaïr had been seen sitting across from the bathhouse, staring at it for most of the afternoon- but made no move to go in. Curious, since while it was a good bathhouse, it was nothing like what his target would use.

In the long hot haze of an afternoon, Altaïr had taken shelter in the dimness of the bureau. No little gifts had found their way under Malik's elbow today, and he couldn't decide if he was disappointed or not.  
“So why haven't you killed your target and moved on?” Malik asked. Altaïr looked up from sharpening his blade  
“He's not in town. I am gathering information.” He looked at the edge of the knife, and dragged it across the whetstone. “I even have a plan. And in the mean time, I have time on my hands. Sadly, the informants do not seem interested in my doing them favors against the next time I have need of their skills.” His eyes were barely visible, shaded beneath his cowl, but Malik could track their movement, and feel them on him. “Is there something I could do for you, Brother?”  
“If you want to do something for me, take a bath.” Malik rolled his eyes and focused on the document he was copying. A bit later, he heard the creak of the lattice as Altaïr left, and ignored it.

He didn't think any more on it until message arrived from the street side.  
Malik supposed Altaïr was blessed somehow, but it was hard to say in what fashion. Another man might have been thrown out in the street -without his clothing- after passing out in the bathhouse. The guards could have easily been called when the attendants attempted to rouse him, and he retaliated by knocking their heads together before falling unconscious a second time. But one of the attendants who hadn't been hurt had recognized Altaïr as the man who'd come in with Malik- and sent an urchin to fetch him. Though Malik suspected it was in hopes of getting some sort of restitution.

For his own purposes, it would have been tempting to leave Altaïr to his fate, but that was hardly in keeping with the spirit of brotherhood. He did toss a bribe to the bathhouse and collect him, like abandoned property. The attendants were mostly impressed that he'd managed to rouse Altaïr without injury, since when they'd attempted to helpfully put him in a cooling bath, thinking he was over come with the heat of the steam room, it had resulted in-thankfully- nonleathal violence. Which was the reason for the size of the bribe, which he intended to take out of Altaïr's hide.

He slapped him awake, dodged a flailing arm, and yanked him to his feet. Malik handled him with the brisk efficiency one would a cat, hauling the still dazed man along by the scruff of his neck, and tossing him into a tepid soaking pool. He stayed submerged long enough Malik was shrugging off his indigo-dyed robe to haul him out bodily, when Altaïr burst forth from the water.  
Water splattered everywhere and he coughed franticly, submerged to the hips, eyes wide and searching.  
“No permanent damage? Your mind has not been turned into a boiled meat, novice?”  
It was something like a cat having been woken with water thrown on him, Malik watched Altaïr compose himself, find the edge and climb out.  
Naturally, Malik kicked him back in.  
“No, stay in there for now.”  
Altaïr glowered at him, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.  
“You know who I am?”  
“I am not likely to forget you, Malik.”  
“You know who you are?”  
“I think you've forgotten who I am.”  
Malik became suddenly glad that they had not allowed him into the bathhouse with his boots on, as Altaïr's hand flashed forward grabbing his belt before he could jerk out of the way, and yanked him into the pool.

Malik managed just barely to not drown Altaïr himself by remembering they were in a public bathhouse. They were both panting, pressed against the wall, paused in the midst of wrestling, breathing in each other's faces, inches apart. A faint smirk twitched up the corner of Altaïr's mouth. Malik's garments clung to him and weighed him down, giving Altaïr convent handholds compared to his own nudity. The space closed further until their noses barely grazed- neither of them closing their eyes or looking away.

“Honorable sirs?” came a voice and Malik thrust himself away, climbing out, and wringing out the tails of his tunic.  
“I'm sorry for the trouble.” Malik said, as Altaïr fished himself out as well. “I hope that we did not disrupt your business too much.”  
The attendants eyes slid over at Altaïr, then back to Malik.  
“Not too much, your friend came in during a slow period. I hope-” he coughed. “that this would not happen again, however.”  
Malik nudged Altaïr in the ribs with his elbow.  
“Apologize for the trouble.” he hissed between his teeth. “I like this bathhouse.  
Altaïr rolled his eyes, but was interrupted by another serendipitous blow. He made a face and wrapped a drying cloth around himself.  
“I am sorry for the trouble.” he said, not making eye contact. “I came in more beset by the heat than I thought. I hope no one was hurt too badly.” it sounded as though the words had to be pulled out one by one. It was still a better apology than Malik had heard from Altaïr since he'd achieved his master's rank. Malik retrieved his robe from the sodden mass it had become on the floor. He tried to wring it out while Altaïr oiled his skin and dressed. For some reason, the attendants were avoiding the room they were in. Altaïr parted at his prompting with the last of his coin in recompense. His head ached, and it stilled Malik's tongue for a time, as they found themselves back on the street. Malik was still wet, but Altaïr had the dry clothes he had brought with him, so he was quite clean and fresh looking.  
“Are you happy?” he asked, eyes sliding over to the rafiq.  
“What?”  
Altaïr spread his arms and gave a mocking half bow.  
“I bathed.”  
Malik threw up his arm in exasperation and strode away.

He slowed down soon enough, when he noticed Altaïr was walking at a fraction of his normal speed and purpose. It would do him no good to ransom the assassin from a bathhouse to lose him in the streets due to relapse of heat exhaustion. Clearly, something was wrong, or he never would have lost consciousness in the baths. Assassins were trained to be tough, but this resulted mainly in their pushing themselves beyond their limits and not noticing. He slowed down, and allowed Altaïr to catch up with him. They walked side by side for a bit, invisible in the late afternoon market crowd, as the heat dried Malik's clothes quickly enough. He paused and bought a drink from a vendor, sharing it with Altaïr without comment, and making sure that most of it got into the assassin. He had probably sweated out anything he'd drunk that day.

Even late in the afternoon, the sun was bright enough that the dimness inside the bureau was a relief. Malik sorted through a few messages that had come in, Things were sleepy; the only major activity in the city for the order at the moment was Altaïr's assignment; and he was patiently- for Altaïr- waiting for an opportune time. This left Malik with little to distract him but the other man's presence. Altaïr had made himself comfortable on the cushions in the shadiest corner of the courtyard, quietly cleaning and trimming his nails. Unable to find anything but busy work to do, he joined the assassin in the shade.  
“So why was it that I had to rescue you from of all things, the bathhouse?” Malik asked. “I did have other things to attend to this afternoon. I prefer to visit when I can actually make use of it.”  
“It was not my intention.” Altaïr said sulkily. “I was waiting. There was someone in... in the pools.”  
“And suddenly you are shy, like a sheltered maiden?” Malik threw his hand up in exasperation again.“Who would have predicted this?”  
Expecting a hot denial, Malik was surprised when Altaïr looked away, as if hurt.  
“I prefer not to be vulnerable.”  
“I think that the workers would be all too willing to attest you are never vulnerable.”  
Altaïr muttered something and Malik leaned towards him, trying to catch the end of it.  
“What was that, I didn't quite catch it?”  
Instead of responding, Altaïr kissed him, quite unexpectedly.

This was not the kiss of a friend to a friend, not the brush of lips of family- this was clearly the overture of a lover- and Malik found himself accepting it, surprising himself as much as it was a surprise itself. He kept his eyes open, however, waiting to see where Altaïr was going with it. When it wasn't rejected, it deepened, Altaïr's hand resting on Malik's shoulder, more of a caress than any sort of effort to hold him in place. In the distance, bells rang in the Christian church, calling people to worship. The hand slid up his shoulder to touch his cheeks, calluses dragging over stubble, and Malik pulled back before he forgot to be wary.

“What is it that you think you're doing?”  
“You are a beautiful man.” Altaïr said in complete seriousness.  
“You must have taken a blow to the head.”  
“I don't just mean physically. You are strong and you are kind; even to someone you hate.”  
“I may... not hate you as much as I once did.” Malik admitted. “I don't know if that shows strength.”  
“No.” Altaïr was not going to be dissuaded. “You are strong, in body, mind and heart. Without that you would have given up. On yourself, on the Brotherhood- on me.”  
“Idiot.”  
Undeterred Altaïr ran his fingertips over Malik's face and down his neck thumbing open the topmost toggle of his robe. Malik grabbed a hold of Altaïr's hair just as he dipped his head and traced lips over the line of Malik's neck. Which was definitely a weak point in his defenses, the barest brush making his knees feel weak, even sitting down.  
“Ah- stop.” it was a weak protest at best, but Altaïr did. “Wooing me with gifts and pretty words, are you? What do you hope to accomplish?”  
“There is only so much I can give you. Miracles are bit out of my range.” Altaïr admitted with deep seriousness. “and anyone you wanted killed you'd take care of yourself. Besides, the admiration and the attraction are separate things. Even if I did not want to breathe in the scent of you, and taste your lips, your eyes would still be as intelligent, your tongue as clever, and your soul as bright.”  
Malik had to admit to himself the pretty words were working, he didn't realize that Altaïr had such an eloquent side to him. He tended to be brusque and to the point.  
“You... “ This seemed hard but after a pause Altaïr continued. “You were right. I was arrogant. I thought you married to the Creed, more to the letter than the spirit, stiff with certainty, and I was wrong.”  
If there had ever been any words that would melt Malik's resistance, hearing that combination from Altaïr's scarred lips worked better than volumes of poetry. His hand loosened, and smoothed through the close cropped cut of Altaïr's hair.  
“I wasn't wrong about everything.” Altaïr felt the need to add, and somehow Malik was glad, if he had shown too much of a change, so quickly, it surely would have been nothing but heat sickness. The skin of his face still felt off, slightly clammy, not hot as he might expect. Altaïr turned his face to kiss Malik's fingers, tracing his lips over thick fingers, where the pen calluses he was developing ran into the sword callus he still had. He still practiced, as badly balanced as his body was, unable to give up the skills that he had earned. Something he had in common with the foolish novice even now tracing lips over his palm. He cupped his hand, and drew Altaïr into a kiss.

They had touched, once or twice before. They had been little more than novices; trusted to run simple missions in pairs, or if observing a master assassin. It had been an interesting, and satisfying- a few experimental kisses had led to more, but not much. Nothing like this, it was the selfishness of youth, both of them taking advantage of the other.  
Then Altaïr achieved the rank of Master Assassin impossibly young, and grew arrogant.  
He fell in love with a woman, lost her, and grew still and distant.  
And he cost Malik his rank, his arm, and his dearest brother.

But Malik enjoyed the quiet work of the rafiq almost as much as the song of battle, and took dark joy in proving that being one armed didn't make him weak, and Kadar was, though young, and his brother in blood, an assassin, and part of Malik knew that he was risking himself, as every Assassin did. The mission had become a mess because of Altaïr- that he could blame him for; but Kadar died because he was an Assassin. It could have been Malik himself, or Altaïr, or any of their brothers. He wondered if he could forgive him, and still hate him at the same time. He wondered if he had to forgive him to take advantage of these kisses, secret in a shady courtyard, Altaïr's mouth tasting faintly of mint and honey from the drink earlier. There was a faint smell of sweet oil from his bathing as well, and the heat of his skin through his tunic was a welcoming sort of warmth. It was easy enough to enjoy the moment, the press of their bodies, the brush of hands, and the feel of lips.

They kissed slowly, unrushed, but it still escalated, and Malik hooked a leg around Altaïr's to pull him closer. Like this he certainly had a slight disadvantage with one arm. For one thing it was utterly unfair that he could not hold Altaïr's head in place and unfasten his tunic at the same time, as it was clearly a time for skin to touch skin. He mad such appealing soft noises when he kissed his neck, Malik wanted to know what other range of noises could be produced when he wasn't surly, and his own tunic was already gaping as far as it went, allowing far too much attention to be paid to his neck for his sanity and good judgment. Their legs tangled as they kissed on the rugs and cushions and the press of a muscled thigh, combined with the kisses and taste of freshly washed skin made him remember desires left largely ignored. Still in this situation, he would probably be the receiver, if it came to that. Malik found upon what thought could be made past the gentle scrape of teeth against his throat that he didn't mind the thought of that. His eyes opened slightly and he realized that the afternoon had moved on ward casting the courtyard into shadow. And the hair normally hidden by a hood was bared and dipped over his chest, as lips traced over muscle in a ticklish light caress.  
“We should move before we go further;” he said, trying to sound detached. “Unless you plan to give the stars a show of your virility.”  
He stopped and looked up.  
“I can't. I won't.” He shook his head.  
“Then what was all this?” Malik demanded, suddenly frustrated.  
“You might...” it was a cagey sort of offer. But he was offering- despite the fact Malik had just accepted it happening, he would never have expected Altaïr to- in fact he'd been starting to look forward to it.  
“I might, but- why?”  
“I...”  
“Why 'can't'?” There was a stiffness in Altaïr's shoulders as he pushed away from Malik, a shake that reminded him of the stiffness he'd shown in the bath. He was pulling away, and Malik followed him up until they were both sitting again. There was pain on his face, and a sheen of sweat that might not have been brought up. His hand went up, pulling his hood back into place, as if there was something to conceal. The scar that crossed his lips stretched as his lips pressed together.  
“Tell me what happened?”  
“I don't think I can.” Altaïr shook his head. He might not if he could. Malik offering to share this pain with him, when he knew that he'd hurt him seemed unbalanced, unfair. He wanted to let Malik hurt him, so he could atone for that pain in some small way, though he could never equal it, not hurt him further. Malik touched his shoulder- the passion might have been lost, but the intimacy that had started between them lingered.  
“Try.” It was more of a request than an order. But Altaïr frowned anyway.  
“I am not sure where to start. It would be too dramatic to start with Al Mualim killing me.” he tipped his head “But of course, I did not really die...”

_The weakness and disorientation from the poison and the long sleep Al Mualim had put him in was taking far too long to fade. While Altaïr wanted to shake it off, to dive into mission after mission, to buy back the rank that he had earned through sweat and skill and lost through pride and arrogance he knew he was not at his peak condition after the period of inaction. His body still felt heavy and unlike his own. Most of the brotherhood were avoiding him, not sure how to feel about him, and a few were enjoying treating him as if he was the barest novice, just barely trusted to undertake missions without supervision. He could accept that, he didn't need their respect. He knew his skill was good. That was it's own reward. They had feared and respected him before, and they would again._   
_There were places that he could not avoid them, of course, common areas, like the practice ring, the kitchens, and the baths. But he could ignore them; when he encountered them. It was worse, a bit, to not encounter faces he expected to. They had been hit hard by the Templar's attack. But then he had held himself separate, and not made many close friends. He could not miss what he'd never had, except in abstract, and he would have respect, at least again. He was sure of it. Far worse to be unwashed like a barbarian than to shy from a simple shunning._

_“Back for more?”_   
_“What?” Altaïr shook his head, clearing water from it. There were a handful of other assassins in the bathing chamber when he'd arrived and he was half done without being spoken to._   
_“Oh right, I forgot, you don't remember anything.”_   
_“What should I be remembering?” He gave a shrug. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he tipped his head, staring at it, before following the arm back up to a face he didn't know, in particular._   
_“We'll remind you, then.”_

_When they first grabbed him, he was surprised, but when it became clear what was happening he fought, brothers or not. He expected a beating; like he was an apprentice who had trespassed. Not a violation. What they did should not have been forced on anyone. The flowers of the garden had chosen their life, more or less. It occurred to Altaïr that he had never considered their lot deeply, though he had made visit to them on occasion. He was a man, at times, like any other. Only men of a certain rank were allowed to enter their garden, and they were allowed to lie with them, as it was a good release of passions, but that was also a reward for good work. Others made due- a visit to the village now and again, or just as likely a freindship in the ranks. That was generally something that was agreed to between them. Not being pinned like this and ridden like a thing with no feeling._

_“It was more fun before.” One complained. “When he moaned like a woman in his delusion.”_   
_One of them prodded him, none too gently._   
_“Moan.” they ordered._   
_He clenched his teeth harder. Whatever had happened during his dream of death- a time he had thought he had spent in a grave, perhaps even tended by the garden flowers, he was aware now, and he would not take orders like that. Instead he thrashed, trying to throw them off, even as one was still violating him._   
_“Moan like a bitch, or gasp like a fish.” a hand closed over the back of his head and shoved it under the water before he could take a breath._

_He struggled but with his arms spread and the hand on the back of his head, even he could be overwhelmed. Altaïr had a light build, however corded with muscle, and his best defense for wrestling was just not to get involved. He struggled though, pulling this way and that until he had no breath, and felt himself go limp. They let him up , and his cheek was pressed to cold stone instead, as he coughed, forcing water out of his chest, and air in, flashes of memories came to him and he half wanted to plunge his head back down into the water._   
_There had been a place in between the drugged death and his awakening. Where he had been steered through the fortress- kept moving, fed, and bathed, tended by the flowers, until a group of men had chased them out._   
_Bathed, and stripped and fucked, by one man after another. Sometimes there was lust; sometimes anger. Sometimes both. And lying breathless on the stones of the bathing room, he was taken again, enough times he lost count. Worse, were the times when he didn't struggle at all, he recalled and blindly obeyed any orders given to him by any who found him, not just a doll, but a puppet- a willing participant in any game they could invent. That was how his drifting time had been spent, not lying dead on cold stone._

_The memory, made his struggles renew- and his head was thrust back under the water, until he was limp again. Clearly they had no patience for it now, in the heat of their lust and, when they let him up again, his ears rang, only to be filled with vile words hissed between teeth and grunts._

The story was told in starts and stops, vague but unmistakeable. Malik was quiet, fingers drumming on the ankle of his boot. Nothing could condone those actions. Beatings perhaps, mockery, ostracization certainly, but taking advantage of a weakness that was unpardonable.  
“Who were they?”  
“I don't remember.” Altaïr didn't look like wanted to. “It made sense after a while. It helped me realize that being helpless was something no one should be.”  
Malik thought of Altaïr's sudden dives to rescue people torment by guards- the defense of innocents that was seen more in the absence than the practice among the brotherhood.  
He shook his head, but what he was going to say was stilled by Altaïr's next statement.  
“I expected you.”  
Malik had to stare at the implication, soul suddenly cold, but slowly shook his head.  
“I recovered quickly.” he shrugged the stub of his arm. Altaïr looked at it, thoughtfully, and Malik fought the urge to cover it with his good hand. “I was sent to Jerusalem to take over as soon as they knew I would survive. I would have been in no shape to wrestle in bath houses, even if I had the desire.”  
“They were doing it to hurt me, for the deaths of their brothers they thought I had caused. So they said.” He gave a bark of laugh. “Well, they said I had caused the deaths, the siege, as if I had personally lured our attackers there. As if I wanted them there because I thought I was such a good fighter I could fight them all off and wanted an audience. I am good, I know but I am not that good.” He rubbed his palm, thumb working upward, towards the gap between his smallest and longest finger. “Though not as aware of my limits as I am now.”  
“This is you, aware of your limits?” the disbelief in his voice was obvious.  
“An amazing change isn't it?” Altaïr spread his hands with a shrug. “I am good- maybe even the best in certain skills. What good would it do anyone to claim otherwise?”

_He refused to acknowledge it. They had hurt him, but he had been hurt before. It was just one more humiliation on the list, one more punishment for the mistakes he had made. For being too good. If they thought that forcing him somehow made them better than him, he would let them have that illusion, because it didn't. And he would not acknowledge it, because if he did, they would have beaten him._

_But when he'd fallen in the water, he'd felt their hands dragging him down. He could swim, he knew he could, he'd done it before. But it felt as if hands- hands like his own, sworn to the brotherhood, held him down. Pressed him into the water and would not let him go, dragging at him. It was pure luck his fingers snagged on the edge of an unfinished stone in the wall and he climbed until the sun scorched him and the wind tore at his clothes, and there was nothing more to climb. Looking out over the city, he had clung there until night had fallen and his clothing was dry, before leaping into the darkness, and the far distant embrace of a haystack._

_He could not stay at Masyaf. He would report as ordered, but would leave again for the next mission the same day, if he could. His bathing was done in private, with a basin of water, and the door blocked. He wasn't afraid. They could take nothing from him. He was simply keeping his body from harm, so as to better do his work. And when he couldn't find a safe place to do that; then he simply dealt with being grimy. Even in the middle of the night, when no one else was around, the bathing rooms felt like a trap. His favorite unguent made him want to vomit. But he was not afraid. He would not be afraid of his brothers, he would not be afraid of his home, and Masyaf was his home._

“And you offer to let me use you the same way?”  
“I hardly think the same way.” Altaïr protested “Would it?”  
“Of course not.” He snapped. “I am not going to do as they did. Whatever reason they had, it was still wrong.”  
“Malik.” Altaïr's voice was quiet. “I give it to you, for safe keeping, so no one else may take it again. You are not taking it at all, but accepting it.” He kissed the underside of Malik's chin. Malik's eyes closed slightly, hand sliding over skin and pulling Altaïr closer.  
“I don't know if it works that way.”  
Their chests pressed together, and Altaïr kissed his neck again, under the ear.  
“Please.”  
“It doesn't work like that.” he mumbled. “You said you expected me to hurt you; how can you expect me to protect you now?” Protect Altaïr- ha- even in his mind that sounded ridiculous. The only thing he'd ever needed protection from was himself.  
But he lay back with the assassin covering him, bared head tucked under his chin, smelling of soap and almond oil. His mind traced over the long hot day, and the twisted tale that Altaïr had told him, which he could not disbelieve, no matter how much he longed to be able to. The brotherhood was something he believed in deeply, and that- that was out of place in it. It was an uneasy thing to think, and he kissed Altaïr since that seemed to drive all other thoughts form his head, and was rewarded with feeling Altaïr relax into it as well.

He woke in the predawn light to Altaïr moving and dressing.  
“What?”  
“A message- my target returns today. I need recheck my plan.” Altaïr said simply. “If I may have permission to strike?”  
Instantly awake, Malik ran over the information Altaïr had gathered and disclosed- most of it mirrored what his own sources told him. Altaïr had shown forethought and diligence, and he should get the chance for his target. He had the feather as fast as Altaïr finished arming and checking his ties. Accepting it, Altaïr tucked it away.  
“Safety and peace.” He said, with a nod of his head. Malik returned the nod. Altaïr had a foot on the fountain and a hand on the lattice exit when Malik poke.  
“Altaïr.”  
“Yes?”  
“Last night you offered me something.” the silence lingered between them as Malik came forward. Altaïr didn't move, but his eyes watched Malik as though prey sensing a predator. Malik gripped the front of his belt, preventing the assassin from fleeing. “I did not claim it then, but I did accept it.” He leaned up and kissed the underside of Altaïr's chin- the easiest thing to reach given their positions. “Keep safe until I do.”  
Altaïr flashed a smile and bent down, taking a moment to steal a kiss from his lips.  
“It will be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: a lot of the problem I had with this and the original 'water damage' is that while it was fine to be in touch with your feelings and be overwrought sometimes in the time period mental scarring and post traumatic stress are not something that were named. The hints are there- Altaïr used to like bathing; he seems to be fine with everything but getting mostly or completely submerged. Being slightly twitchy, slightly shock, avoiding this he used to enjoy... like almond oil.
> 
> As for his reaction- well, everyone has different reactions and logic to trauma.

**Author's Note:**

> Writer!Brain? Pardon me, I ordered wet, sticky Plot-what-plot? This is historicaly plausible platonic bonding with delicious mental images, light flirting and hints of a past rich in psychological trauma? 
> 
>  
> 
> Oh well, I guess I'm just going to have to write it.


End file.
